Randy Foster: Here and back again

Published: Saturday, October 5, 2013 at 07:16 PM.

Hi. Remember me? It’s been awhile. I’m the guy who writes a weekly column that goes in this spot, but I haven’t been available lately.

For you, perhaps it was a refreshing break. Or maybe you missed me.

It’s not like I took the last month off from work, but I was away from my desk several key days, days when I usually write my column.

Some of those days were due to illness (don’t worry, nothing serious, better now). One time I accompanied my wife to see specialists about her Huntington’s disease (she’s doing OK, according to this six-month checkup). The clincher was two weeks ago, when my sister Patty died suddenly after years of declining health.

Patty was married to Jamie, a Vietnam veteran who I’ve written about before and who died of Agent Orange-related complications three years ago. Patty was my oldest sister. We hated each other as children, but were probably the closest of my siblings in the end.

I wasn’t able to immediately travel to California, where she lived, and the first few days after she died put me in a deep funk that I still can’t describe and which still creeps up at unexpected times.

Sarah, Mark, Blake and I flew out for four days around last weekend, during which Mark first met his grandparents, his remaining aunt and uncle, and a cousin, Joshua, who is Patty and Jamie’s only son.

Hi. Remember me? It’s been awhile. I’m the guy who writes a weekly column that goes in this spot, but I haven’t been available lately.

For you, perhaps it was a refreshing break. Or maybe you missed me.

It’s not like I took the last month off from work, but I was away from my desk several key days, days when I usually write my column.

Some of those days were due to illness (don’t worry, nothing serious, better now). One time I accompanied my wife to see specialists about her Huntington’s disease (she’s doing OK, according to this six-month checkup). The clincher was two weeks ago, when my sister Patty died suddenly after years of declining health.

Patty was married to Jamie, a Vietnam veteran who I’ve written about before and who died of Agent Orange-related complications three years ago. Patty was my oldest sister. We hated each other as children, but were probably the closest of my siblings in the end.

I wasn’t able to immediately travel to California, where she lived, and the first few days after she died put me in a deep funk that I still can’t describe and which still creeps up at unexpected times.

Sarah, Mark, Blake and I flew out for four days around last weekend, during which Mark first met his grandparents, his remaining aunt and uncle, and a cousin, Joshua, who is Patty and Jamie’s only son.

With a bicoastal family, it’s hard getting the family together, but I am ashamed that it took a death and a decade to pull it off. Though we were there four days, time passed quickly. As we departed California early Sunday morning, I formulated ways to make another visit soon, preferably not scheduled around a memorial service.

Just days before we went to California, a colleague who is the editor at a sister paper in North Carolina traveled there to celebrate his wedding anniversary. His Facebook updates showed many of the places my family and I were about to visit.

As his trip wound down and ours began, we came within just a few miles of each other but didn’t connect.

We were on a tight schedule that Mark, 8, insisted include us crossing the Golden Gate Bridge (which we did) and visiting Alcatraz Island (which we saw it from afar). We also stopped at Fisherman’s Wharf and had a fusion lunch that combined California and Vietnamese cuisines, then tested our stomachs further with a drive down the steep and winding Lombard Street. By 4 p.m., we were a world away, checking into a hotel in the foothills east of Sacramento.

It struck me how at-home I felt driving on California’s busy streets and freeways. On one onramp in The City (which is what Californians call San Francisco), two lanes merged into one. “Watch this,” I said to Sarah, as two rows of cars became one as smoothly as a nylon zipper.

Californians have a hive mentality when they drive. As long as you don’t show any fear or reluctance, you’ll do OK.

Something that struck Sarah was how often strangers smiled at her. We wandered through a Costco with my father, my wheelchair-bound mother, Blake and Mark, and stranger after stranger stopped to exchange a few friendly words.

Our long flight home ended at Coastal Carolina Regional Airport, and five minutes later we pulled into our driveway, thankful that we didn’t fly out of RDU.

The only evidence remaining from our trip are the memories, the photos, a few gifts from grandparents to grandchildren, and a nasty cold Sarah caught on the flight over.